I swirl the hot liquid in my cup, heat radiating against my palm. Everyone is glowing, all of them clinging to an unfaltering, unified hope, and when the boys skate out across the ice and wave to their newly adoring fans, the murmurs in the stands give way to a thunderous roar. My heart races as Josh brings up the end of the line, and when he spots me in the stands and raises his stick in the air, my head spins.
I know I’m not part of the practices anymore, but now, as they glide around the rink in their blue-and-silver jerseys in perfect formation, the crowd stomping its collective feet, my whole body tingles with pride. Not to get all mama bear, but it seems like only yesterday the pups were stumbling out of the box, lumbering over the ice with all the grace of bricks.
Tonight they’re playing in the semis, heading for the finals, breaking records with the unlikeliest, craziest, most insane comeback in the entire history of Watonka High. Even if they lose this game, they’ve still performed miracles. When everyone else told them they couldn’t do it, they marched out to the rink, banged their sticks on the ice, and raised the dead.
Cheers to that, wolf pack.
I raise my cardboard cup to the ice and take another swig, whipped cream tickling my lips. Down on the rink, the opposition slides out to a boo-hiss symphony, and the starters on both sides line up for the face-off.
The whistle blows. The puck drops. And it’s on.
Josh takes it first, cutting across the ice and slapping the puck down the rails to Rowan. Two more passes between them, one back to Gettysburg, back to Rowan, sliding into Sharks territory, over to Josh, Josh lays back to take the shot, but Will cuts across and nabs the puck, shoots hard, and scores, right between the goalie’s skates.
First goal of the game, less than two minutes in.
Will dominates the ice again, weaving in and out of the Sharks’ defensive line, the tightest turns I’ve ever seen him pull. When the other team steals the puck, Will steals it right back. He’s keeping it away from the Sharks, but he’s also keeping it away from his own guys. They’re total showboat moves, and in the final seconds of the first period, the opposing defensive line swipes the puck, sends it down the ice, and scores.
One to one at the first intermission, and Coach Dodd calls Will over for a private conference. Dodd’s hands flail around, his face red and blotchy, and Will’s shoulders slump. Dodd hasn’t paid much attention to Will’s technique all season, but when you’re backed by a pack of recruiters, priorities apparently change. Will should know better. Playing the showman card won’t score him any points with the suit committee.
At the start of the second, Frankie snags the puck from the Sharks’ center and slaps it to Josh. Josh takes it down the line, passes it to Micah, back to Josh at the Sharks’ net. Josh shoots and scores, right over the goalie’s shoulder, setting off a crushing roar through the stadium. My heart speeds up each time the boys skate back to the center line, and for the entire game, even though I’m sitting alone with no glittery signs or wolf-ear headbands or blue-and-silver flags, I cheer as loud as I can.
The Wolves are on fire, but Dodd lays into Will again at the next intermission. Josh stands behind them on the ice, bracing against the force of Dodd’s secondhand rage. By the time they line up for third period, both co-captains are on edge, elbowing each other as the ref drops the puck.
The score is tied three-three, and in the last five minutes of the game, a chant rises in the stands. By the time it reaches me, it morphs into a song, and soon the entire arena is belting out the chorus to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London,” changing the words to “Wolves of Watonka,” which doesn’t have the same lyrical ring, but gets the point across.
The boys are completely pumped.
With one minute on the clock, Amir saves a goal and passes the puck to Luke, who brings it up to Brad, who sends it up to Josh, safely out of Wolves territory. I stomp my feet and sing the wolf song with the crowd, and in the final seconds, Will swipes the puck from Josh, charges ahead, crosses the Wolves’ blue line, the red line, the Sharks’ blue line, pulls his stick back, and slaps the puck straight at the goalie, straight through his gloves, straight into the net.
The buzzer sounds.
The game is over.
The formerly untrainable, apathetic, obnoxious, and most losingest team in history has just won the semifinals, four to three.
The wolf pack is going to the finals.
I push my way down to the ice, the boys smashed together in a free-form mosh pit, sticks high in the air. I dodge between groups of parents and step out onto the rink in my boots, scanning the crowd for Josh.
Both co-captains hang behind the pack, just out of reach of the celebratory crush. I slide closer. Will is surrounded by Dodd and the suit committee, news guy Don Donaldson edging in with a mic and a cameraman.
“Will, is it true that your coach is already fielding interest from NHL Central Scouting?” Don asks.
“We’re looking at our options,” Dodd answers for him. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak actual words all season. “No comment at this time.”
“What about you, gentlemen?” Don asks the suits. “Like what you saw out there tonight?”
“No comment at this time,” Dodd says again, nodding curtly at the camera and ushering his well-dressed buddies off the ice. Without so much as a congratulatory smile, Will’s father goes with them, disappearing behind the stands.
Will turns to skate away, too, but Josh grabs his jersey and yanks him close, their helmets almost touching.
“Josh!” I slide over to them in my boots, trying not to stumble on the ice. “Stop! What are you doing?”
Josh sees me and loosens his grip. “Go ahead,” he says to Will. “Tell her about your godfather.”
“But …” I look from captain to captain. “Dodd? That’s what you’re fighting—”
“You knew about him?” Josh’s eyes blaze.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I say, utterly lost. “Will didn’t like to talk about it, so … what’s up with you guys tonight? You just won the semis!”
Josh skates close to me, face red, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “You two have been scheming together this whole season, and you’re asking me what’s up?”
“What are you talking—”
“That’s it, Blackthorn,” Will says. “I’m benching you next game. Keep it up, you’re out for the rest of the playoffs.”
“You’re the coach now, too?” Josh shoves Will’s shoulder. “Was that part of your sweet little deal with Dodd?”
I wedge myself between them and try to grab Will’s arm, but he dives around me, slamming Josh against the glass. I wave for Amir, but the rest of the pack is still hugging and fist-bumping on the center line, oblivious.
“Will, what are you doing?” I shout. “Back off!”
Will lets out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s not what you usually say.”
Josh’s face changes from red to ice-white to red again, Will’s cocky smirk undoing everything I said at Hurley’s yesterday. All the promises I made, the moments between us, erased in the heat of some stupid, testosterone-fueled misunderstanding.
“Josh, don’t listen to—”
“Was Hudson part of the package, too?” Josh asks. “Bonus for selling us out? Dodd’s really got the hookup, huh?”
Will tells a hundred more lies with a single suggestive look, but his smirk falls when he sees my face. Something like regret flickers behind his eyes, and then the wall goes back up between us, cold and solid.
“Jealous, Blackthorn?” Will spits at the ice, and suddenly, Josh winds up for a swing. Amir is next to me in a millisecond, the other boys close behind. Before Josh can connect, Amir hip-checks him into the glass, and the rest of the team swarms us, Amir holding Josh while Rowan and Brad pull Will across the ice, back to the locker room.